He flicked ash from his cigarette, utterly unmoved.
"Joy Harding, the devoted-wife act really doesn't suit a slut like you."
I cried until I retched. "Sebastian, you can't do this to me! And why her of all people?"
"You know—you know—it was Narelle and her mistress mother who drove my mom to suicide!"
Something flickered in his eyes. Then they went red.
His foot slammed into the table, sending it crashing.
"Joy, so you do know how that feels?"
"I put you on a fucking pedestal. All these years, I held back—never touched you before the wedding no matter how badly I wanted to, terrified of scaring you. And you turned around and crawled into bed with Hubert Sanchez?"
"What the hell am I to you?"
The photo. Of course.
The day before the wedding, Hubert and I had both been drugged. We woke up in the same bed.
I'd gotten examined immediately. Between the test results and both our memories before blacking out, we'd confirmed nothing happened.
I'd planned to explain everything to Sebastian after the ceremony. I never imagined someone would display that damning photo at the wedding itself.
The pain crushed my chest. All I could do was sob out the truth: